


Iron and Silk

by VagrantWriter



Series: Iron and Blood [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dubious Consent, F/M, Threats of Rape/Non-Con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-19
Updated: 2015-01-21
Packaged: 2018-03-08 04:09:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3194789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VagrantWriter/pseuds/VagrantWriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stories about the women who would have changed Theon Greyjoy's life if their paths had ever crossed.</p>
<p>Theon goes with Ned to Kings Landing. He doesn't stand a chance against the Lannisters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

To think, there’d been a time when he actually _liked_ the little ponce. Well, perhaps “liked” was too strong a word. More like…recognition of a kindred spirit. Or _hope_ of a kindred spirit, at least.

Joffrey was soft and soft-headed, but he possessed a sort of dismissive disdain that Theon envied. He spoke whatever was on his mind and said what he wanted, things that would have earned Theon a slap to the face and a quick reminder to mind his position. What was more, people treated Joffrey with respect for his words. The perks of being a prince.

On the long journey from Winterfell to Kings Landing he’d laughed at Theon’s bawdy jokes like he actually understood them, though Theon would wager the boy was as much a virgin as Robb was. The prince became the closest thing he had to an ally, now that Lady Stark had decided he’d become a bad influence on her eldest son.

“Take him with you,” she’d demanded, right where he could hear them in the open hallway outside his room in Winterfell.

“I know you are worried about Bran,” Ned had started, but she’d cut him off.

“Take him with you. Get him out of here, away from my children.”

And that had been the end of that discussion, no matter how Robb had pleaded for her to change her mind. Even little Rickon had come to his defense, but Lady Stark’s mind had been made up, and they’d departed a day later with hardly any time for packing.

“She sent you away?” Joffrey reined his horse in to a more leisurely trot beside Theon. Up ahead, the boy’s bodyguard kept careful watch, turning his ugly, scarred face towards them every so often. “I thought the whole point of taking a hostage was to keep them near you.”

Theon flinched a bit at that but didn’t bother to correct the prince’s wording. Even if there was a nominal difference between a ward and a hostage, one did not simply correct a prince. “Well…what Lady Catelyn wants, Lady Catelyn eventually gets.” And with Jon off to the Wall and him off to Kings Landing, she sure had gotten exactly what she’d wanted.

Joffrey scoffed again. “The Northerners take entirely too many orders from their women.”

Theon nodded in agreement.

“Gods forbid it, but if Lady Catelyn were _my_ wife, I’d tell her to keep her damn mouth shut.” He made a smacking gesture with his hand and laughed, then cast a glance over his shoulder towards the back of a caravan. “When the time comes, you’ll never see _my_ wife talking out of turn.”

Theon followed his line of sight to Sansa astride her mare. She had a scowl on her face, evidently in response to something Arya, riding beside her, had said. Lady and Nymeria walked side by side, sisters themselves, though much more alike than the two Stark girls. Theon couldn’t quite put his finger on why, but it bothered him to be reminded that Sansa was to be wed to Joffrey. Perhaps because he’d always imagined _he’d_ be the one to marry her, stupid as that sounded. She’d even told him on one occasion, albeit many years ago, that she and Jeyne had a running disagreement over which of them he would take as his bride.

Joffrey seemed to pick up on this from his silence, because a mischievous grin had taken the place of his omnipresent sneer. “I’ll let you have her,” he whispered, leaning over the side of his horse so that the saddle nearly slipped. “After she’s had my heirs, of course.”

Theon swung his head around to stare at the prince. Words escaped him. Was that a joke? A trap, maybe, to lure Theon into confessing he coveted the crowned prince’s betrothed?

“Of course,” Joffrey continued, “if you want to _marry_ into the Starks, there’s always the younger sister.”

Silence hung between them.

Joffrey was the first to laugh, and Theon followed his lead. Together they laughed in earnest.

“Me…and Arya Horseface?” Theon guffawed.

“Arya Horseface, I like that,” Joffrey snorted through his nose. “She _could_ be made presentable…with a sack over her head. Could you imagine? Serious Ned Stark leading his daughter to the altar with a sack on her head?”

“He’d never allow it.” Although, he never would have allowed Sansa to marry him either. But Sansa was an appropriate fantasy: pretty, demure, highborn, everything a man could want from a wife. She might even be trained to overlook her husband’s indiscretions. Arya would likely lop her husband’s dick off.

Joffrey was sneering again. “He’d be _lucky_ to pawn off that little bitch. The way she acts—like an animal.” He shook his head, as if at the tragedy of it all. “Just another way you Northerners kowtow to their women.”

“Not the Ironborn,” Theon corrected before he would even realize he _was_ correcting. He cringed, but Joffrey didn’t seem to notice. “On the Iron Islands, we know what women are for.”

Joffrey looked at him like he was genuinely interested to hear more, so Theon spent the next hour explaining the difference between a rock wife and a salt wife. Joffrey laughed too loud and too often, and if his outbursts occasionally drew the disapproving eye of the Queen, what was the harm? Theon might yet make a friend of the prince.

 

***

 

Everything changed when the sword fell. Theon was distantly aware of the crowd cheering, of Sansa screaming then wilting away, but mostly he watched Eddard Stark’s head roll and remembered the executions he’d attended at Winterfell. At the last one, he’d kicked the dead man’s head and laughed, and Robb had given him a disgusted look. Now, though…he expected to feel something, fear or relief, but he was numb.

It wasn’t until much later that night, as he lay awake, with that image in his head, that it sank in. His jailer was dead. He was no longer a hostage of the Starks.

He wept.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I guess this chapter could be titled: Timeline? What Timeline? But I think it all works out, more or less.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's commented and left kudos. You guys are awesome!

“We know you’re no traitor, Theon.”

The Queen didn’t have any cute nicknames for him like she did with Sansa. In fact, he was surprised that she knew his name at all. She never bothered to look his way, and after nearly a week of being largely unmolested by anyone of importance, he was beginning to suspect _everyone_ had forgotten about him. Which was good in a way because it allowed him to drown his numbness if whores and drink. Nobody stopped him.

But then he’d been summoned for a private audience. He could only imagine what trouble he was in.

As he approached the Queen’s meeting chambers, he saw Sansa being led away by the Hound. Her eyes were bloodshot and faraway. They flickered to him, and she looked like she wanted to say something, but the Hound only pulled her along. Theon was admitted a moment later and not allowed to dwell on the matter.

“We know you did not associate yourself with the wolves of your own accord,” Cersei said now in that cloyingly sweet way she had. “You are as much a victim in their schemes as my poor boy.”

Standing with his back to her, looking out the window, said “poor boy” made a noise of disgust.

Cersei ignored him and continued to stare at Theon as though he were an especially uninteresting insect. “How many years has it been since the Greyjoy Uprising?”

He gave an appropriate pause before answering, though of course he knew. He knew how many _months_ it had been, perhaps even how many days. “Ten, Your Grace.”

“Ten years.” She pretended to marvel at that number. “I believe that’s long enough. A new king means a new age, and the Crown is willing to forgive your father his arrogance.” She leaned forward on the desk with her elbows. “How would you like to go home, Theon?”

His breath caught. He’d been waiting to hear those words ever since he’d been taken from his home on Pyke, but as the years had passed, he’d come to believe that he never would.

“You’d let me?”

She smiled thinly. “There is one thing I would ask of you…to prove you are loyal to the new king.”

“What would you have me do?” He held out his hands, offering her his service. “Bend the knee?”

“That’s foregone.” She dismissed it with a wave of her hand. “The Greyjoys _will_ bend the knee and swear fealty to King Joffrey. No, what I want of you…” She lifted a quill from the inkstand on her desk and reached for a piece of parchment. “Is to write a letter.”

“To who?”

“To Robb Stark,” Joffrey said, speaking for the first time.

Theon blinked dully. He had not been expecting that. “You think _I_ can change Robb’s mind about marching on Kings Landing?” He gave an incredulous bark of laughter.

Joffrey turned from the window with a peevish scowl on his face. “Robb Stark is an idiot.”

Theon bit back on the urge to defend his old friend. He didn’t owe Robb or the Starks anything.

“We’re trying to broker a trade in hostages,” Cersei said diplomatically. “Sansa and Arya for…” Something close to a human emotion passed over her face. “For…my brother.”

The Kingslayer? Robb had taken the Kingslayer in battle? A boy like him? Theon knew he shouldn’t feel pleased, much less proud, but after a week of feeling nothing, that was the emotion that swelled in him at the moment. _Hit them where it hurts_ , _Robb_. He hid his grin, though.

“You don’t have Arya,” he answered instead.

The two off them looked at him like that had been the stupidest thing he could have possible said.

“Doesn’t matter,” Joffrey said. “The idiot’s likely to make the trade. Like you said, these Northerners kowtow to their women. He’ll trade for Sansa and her empty head alone.”

“Though it’s better,” Cersei interrupted, pushing the quill and paper across the desk, “if the Starks continue to believe Arya remains in our custody. I need you to write Robb personally to tell him that both of his sisters are alive and well for the moment but that you can’t guarantee their continued safety should he turn down this offer.”

“Why me?”

“Because Robb _trusts_ you,” Joffrey said, then added, “Bloody git.”

Theon wondered if Joffrey were even aware of his double-edged insult. Why _shouldn’t_ Robb trust him? They were as good as brothers.

Even if he didn’t owe the Starks anything, it felt odd to conspire with the Lannisters against them. Well, it wasn’t _exactly_ conspiring. If he did as he was told and everything worked out, both he and Sansa could get their freedom out of this. Besides, he obviously didn’t have a choice in the matter.

“Okay,” he said, sitting down and drawing the parchment near.

As Cersei dictated the letter, Joffrey paced the room, grinning like a pleased cat. “A loyal man, I like that. Tell you what, Greyjoy. In appreciation to your loyalty, I’ll let you have Sansa’s maidenhead.”

The quill scratched across the word he’d been writing.

Cersei’s head shot up, and Theon wondered that Joffrey didn’t wither under her glare. “She is to be _your wife_.”

“Not if Robb agrees to the trade. Besides, she hasn’t even started her moon blood yet, so it’s not like he could get her pregnant.”

Cersei glowered and Joffrey continued to smile.

“I could get Ser Meryn to hold her down,” he went on. “But I want to be there to watch.”

The quill fell from Theon’s fingers. The boy-king wasn’t joking. This wasn’t false bravado built up for an audience. He was quite serious, probably even _hoping_ Theon would take him up on his offer. Sansa’s image came unbidden to his mind, her eyes red from crying, the Hound yanking on her arm to hurry her along. What had Joffrey said to her? Theon would never hurt that girl, not for this _boy’s_ amusement, at any rate.

“Virgins are overrated,” he finally answered, taking up the quill again. “Give me a good whore any day.”

Joffrey looked disappointed, but Cersei looked relieved, if she were capable of expressing emotion. Theon finished the letter as Cersei dictated then asked to be dismissed to his rooms. He couldn’t escape from there fast enough.


	3. Chapter 3

Despite his avail to Robb, no trade was made, which honestly shocked him. He couldn’t imagine the Robb he knew abandoning his sisters, much less Catelyn. He couldn’t tell if the Lannisters blamed him or not. On the one hand, he was still allowed to wander aimlessly around the Keep while disinterested eyes watched. On the other, there had been no further talk of sending him back to Pyke, so that was probably off the table. He was an indefinite guest, just like he’d always been.

Joffrey did blame Sansa, though, and took his frustrations out on her. Theon remembered the first time he’d been able to speak with her after Ned’s execution. Her arms had been covered in bruises as she threw herself at him, clinging, crying. “Robb will come for us,” she’d sobbed into his ear.

He’d hugged her back, caught off guard as he’d been. In this world of apathetic strangers, he had to admit that it was nice to have someone familiar need him. He suddenly felt guilty that so far he hadn’t done a thing to protect her. And now here she was, covered in purple bruises, crying into his shoulder and reminding him that Robb might come for them, for _him_ even. But then the Hound had come for her and he’d wondered what he really _could_ do.

_Nothing_ , the part of his mind that was prone to surrender told him. _Nothing at all. Just as helpless as ever_.

 

***

 

Joffrey was angry again. Perhaps he’d lost another battle or another stronghold to the Starks. Theon didn’t know. He wasn’t privy to information from the warfront. He did know that Joffrey was making Sansa the court’s plaything again. He could hear her whimpering as he wandered into the royal court from the balcony, hoping that nobody noticed the smell of alcohol on him.

He peeked between a pair of gawkers who at least had the decency to look horrified at the sight below. Sansa lay crumpled in a heap in the middle of the floor, sobbing quietly as she tried to cover herself, her dress having been torn from her. Exposed, the large red welts stood out against her pale skin. Meryn Trant lifted his sheath and added another stripe to her back. She cried out at the blow.

Theon had never considered himself noble. That sort of rubbish was for Starks, not Greyjoys. And yet, watching this, as Joffrey watched smiling from his throne, as the court watched silently all around, made him righteously angry. Hit a woman? Fine, if she deserved it. But Sansa Stark, who empty-headedly strove only to please? Surely nobody thought she deserved this.

Anger swelling, he pushed his way down from the balcony and through the crowd. He’d had, perhaps, too much to drink, roughly elbowing those who would not move. Those nearest the spectacle were reluctant to give up their spots to make room for him, but they did when he finally called out at the top of his lungs, “Your Grace!”

Joffrey looked up and Meryn stopped the beating as Theon broke into the circle. All eyes were on him, all eyes that, up until now, had only begrudgingly acknowledged his existence. It was gratifying to see their open-mouthed shock now.

Joffrey regained himself before anyone else. “Yes, Greyjoy?” he asked, leaning forward on the Iron Throne. He did not look pleased.

“Your Grace,” Theon began again, affecting nonchalance as Sansa shot hopeful looks his way. “Surely your _mother_ would not approve of such treatment towards your future wife.”

Joffrey, dumb ponce, didn’t even feel the weight of the threat. He scoffed like he did at everything. “My _mother_ doesn’t approve of much, which makes it fortunate that I don’t have to listen to her.”

He’d given Theon a perfect opening. What he said next could draw the King’s ire away from Sansa and bring it solely on his head. For the time being. He heard Sansa whimper again as she clawed for the scraps of her dress. With a long sigh, he gathered up his voice.

“She approves of _me_ very much.”

Joffrey scrunched up his nose. “What?” he asked in genuine confusion.

Theon would have to spell it out for him. “In bed. When I _fuck_ her.”

The court erupted into scandalized murmurs.

“What did you say?” Joffrey demanded through clenched teeth.

“She says I’m better than the Kingslayer, even.”

Some of the murmuring turned to angry protests, and Joffrey leapt to his feet, face bright red. “Ser Meryn,” he said, just a level below full-on screaming, “kill him!”

The goldcloak, never one for asking questions, advanced, drawing the sword from his sheath. Theon took a step back. Perhaps he’d made a poor decision.

“Wait, you can’t kill me,” he cried, though it was becoming apparent that Joffrey could. He wasn’t _supposed_ to kill Ned Stark, and look how _that_ had ended. “Your Grace!” Theon threw his hands up in a bid to ward of Meryn Trant’s murderous intent.

“Wait.” Joffrey held up a kingly hand to stay his own orders. “Make him suffer first.”

A fist collided with Theon’s jaw, sending him reeling to the floor. He heard Sansa scream. It seemed he was going to die at the hands of his captors, after ten years of expecting it. But now it was his own fault, and all for nothing. Joffrey would go back to tormenting Sansa by tomorrow. His mouth filled with blood as he scrabbled to his knees. Ser Meryn drew closer and Theon flinched—act a hero, die a coward.

“What’s going on here?”

The sounds of the court fell away. The short, quick click of heels echoed off the tiled floors. Theon didn’t have time to realize he’d been given a respite before the crowd parted to make way for the Imp. For a small man, he had an imperious bearing, one he put to good use as he made his way to the center of it all. He gave Theon a cursory glance before going to Sansa, who flinched away from him.

“Are you insane?” he addressed Joffrey. “You’ve already brought down the wrath of the Starks on our heads. Would you invite the Greyjoys as well?”

“He’s a traitor. A traitor and a lying cunt. He should have his tongue cut out for speaking such disgusting lies!”

The Imp was collected in a way Theon envied as he replied, with little tact, “We are already fighting a war on three fronts. A war we are currently _losing_. And you want to bring _another_ army against us? One with a formidable oceangoing fleet, no less?”

“I won’t stand for—”

“A joke,” Tyrion interrupted. “A boyish joke. False bluster. Not a very good joke, mind you.” He cast Theon a look that was just as withering as the Queen’s. “Isn’t that right, Greyjoy?”

Theon nodded.

“But—”

“I have an idea.” Tyrion clapped his hands together. “Why don’t you,” he nodded to Theon, “apologize for your questionable choice in humor and we can put this whole thing behind us. I have much more pressing questions, such as why your,” he turned to Joffrey, “future wife seems to have lost her dress.” He turned to the crowd. “Would someone _please_ fetch her something to cover herself with?”

As a man in the front row stepped forward to offer his cloak, Joffrey sat begrudgingly back on his throne. “Very well, Greyjoy.” It was difficult to tell if he was scowling or sneering. Whichever it was, it didn’t bode well. “I’ll accept your apology. If you crawl to me on your knees and kiss my boots.”

Theon wiped the blood from his face. Never! He was an Ironborn, and the Ironborn did not grovel.

Tyrion delivered a swift kick to his side. “Do it or die,” he hissed. “I’ll not stick my neck out for you and your pride again.”

And that was that. There simply was no alternative.

The act of getting on his hands and knees hurt a hundred times worse than Meryn Trant’s blow to his jaw. He focused on the pattern of the tile on the floor as he made his way to the dais and up the few stairs to the foot of the throne. He couldn’t bear to lift his eyes, but he knew Joffrey was smiling.

“Well?” He pushed a boot into Theon’s face. “Get on with it.”

Theon bent his head and pressed his lips to the leather of Joffrey’s boot. Luckily, the boy-king was as reluctant to dirty his feet as he was to dirty his hands, because the boot was quite clean, even if it left a bitter taste in his mouth.

He heard the King smirk, and then the boot came down on his head, pressing his face to the cold floor. “Very well. I forgive you, Greyjoy. Now get out of here. Skulk back to whatever corner you crawled out of. I’ll send guards to make sure you stay there.”

Theon stood. The crowd parted for him this time, but he wished they would go back to ignoring him. It felt like his dignity had been stripped and left as tatters on the floor, just like Sansa’s dress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that is how Theon invented the first "yo mama" joke. It never really caught on.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings are mostly for this chapter.

Cersei summoned him several days later, and that’s when Theon knew he was dead.

He hadn’t spoken to anyone since the incident in the courtroom, had not been allowed to. There was a guard posted in front of his room, and his door was unlocked only long enough for food to be pushed through. No alcohol. No whores. That left him with only his thoughts. He spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about Sansa and hoping she was doing well, though he had no idea why.

And then, three days after the incident, the door opened and the guard informed him that the Queen had requested his presence. Instead of being led to the receiving room where he’d been asked to write the letter to Robb, he was brought to the Queen’s personal chambers. He didn’t like it. Was she planning to have him killed in some out-of-the-way spot? Surely her own bedroom wasn’t ideal for that. Perhaps it was meant to be ironic, losing his head after boasting about bedding the Queen?

Cersei turned when they entered, her stony face revealing nothing of her intent. She waved to dismiss the guard. “Leave us.”

He did, without question.

Theon felt oddly vulnerable without him there.

She came around the bed, slinking in a dress of Lannister red and gold. A cup of wine was poised in her hand. “You made a bit of a stir the other day, you know.”

Theon bowed at the waist and hoped he wouldn’t have to get on his knees again. Even if it were just the two of them, he didn’t think his dignity could stand it. “I’m sorry, Your Grace. It was an off-color jest, that’s all.”

“Yes, boys will have their jests.” The train of her dress rustled along the floor. He couldn’t hear the clicking of heels. Perhaps she was barefoot underneath? “Moreover, I must commend you on putting my son in his place.”

He straightened, stiffly. But she was smiling. The expression was almost, dare he say it, disarming.

“Seven know he never would have stopped if I’d been the one to tell him so.” She pinched her eyebrows together and pursed her lips. “The boy runs rampant. Really? Beating his betrothed and treating is as a spectacle for anyone to see?” She took a sip from her glass, and he saw a flash of the rich red wine as it passed over her lips. “I’m told you were the only one to speak up…until my brother stepped in.”

Theon felt some of his wariness ebb away. Cersei was smart and could even be reasonable. No doubt she’d parsed apart the events to come to the truth of the matter.

“But the fact remains,” she went on, and his stomach dropped, “that you’ve been spreading falsehoods. About me. About you.”

“Your Grace, I—”

“Why don’t we put those _falsehoods_ to rest?” She set the glass on a stand and stepped out into the middle of the room. A tug on the cinch of her dress sent the whole thing cascading down her shoulders to pool on the floor. She was completely bare underneath.

Theon nearly choked on his tongue. This was not what he had been expecting, and yet…

And yet it was clear why Cersei was said to be the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms. She was smooth and shiny, every bit of her soft. She moved with the grace of a cat to the bed and lay down, spreading herself out. Golden hair fanned out around her head, while the golden curls between her legs beckoned.

“Won’t you join me?”

Theon nearly tripped over himself in his hurry to simultaneously strip and make his way to the bed. These southern clothes were made for this task, though, and he left his boots, jerkin, doublet, chemise, belt, pants, and smallclothes on the floor in his wake. He bounded onto the bed and she reached out for him.

She was as soft as she looked, and she made small gasping sounds as he took one of her nipples into his mouth. Her fingers came up to tangle in his hair. “This is a bed made for kings to make love in.”

“I like that.” He came up to kiss her mouth, but she turned her head away.

“Will you fuck me?”

“Like you’ve never been fucked before.”

“Will you beg to fuck me?”

He chuckled and leaned down to nip at her jaw. “Please, Your Grace, allow me to fuck you.”

She smiled and watched him out of the corner of her eye. “Well, when you ask so—” Suddenly she went rigid underneath him, and her coy smile morphed into surprised horror. “You _did_ lock the door behind you, didn’t you?”

He tensed and stopped his ministrations.

“What if someone walks in?” she gasped. “What would they say? What would happen to me? To you?”

Theon cast a furtive glance towards the door. In the one second he was distracted, Cersei wrapped her thighs around his hips and rolled, flipping them over and reversing their positions.

“What if I screamed right now? _Help, help me_. There’s a guard just outside that door.” She ground her hips against his. “I wonder what the punishment for raping a queen is. I bet it makes death seem preferable.”

“Get off.” Theon pushed at her, but she was deceptively strong. And he dare not raise a hand to her. “Please, don’t call the guard.”

She smiled. “Maybe I won’t.” She reached between them and grabbed his flagging erection, hard enough to hurt. “Maybe I’ll let you fuck me after all. Maybe I’ll let you plant your seed in me. If it takes root, won’t that give the court something to talk about? Theon Greyjoy, who took advantage of a grieving widow, is now father to the Queen’s bastard. They’d put you and your bastard’s heads on pikes.”

Theon shook his head. “Please don’t.”

Her grin grew wider. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t…put it in. Don’t fuck me!”

She threw her head back and laughed. “Oh, I like that. Say it again.” She released his cock to grab his face between her hands, digging in with sharp nails. “Beg me like you’re a maiden. _Please don’t fuck me_. Beg me like I’m going to do it anyway.”

“P-please.” It felt like he was choking. “Don’t fuck me. Don’t…” He felt tears of terror well in his eyes.

Cersei crinkled her nose in disgust and rolled off of him. “You really _are_ like a maiden, aren’t you?”

He sat up, trembling all over. He had never felt so small in his entire life. So utterly weak and womanish. “Thank you, Your Grace.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed and started to get up. His clothes were scattered everywhere and would need to be picked up.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

He looked back to see her reclined, legs apart. She motioned with her eyes where she wanted him to go.

“You can still use your tongue, can’t you? Well, let’s see if you really _are_ better than the Kingslayer.” The way she arched her eyebrow suggested she was skeptical, at best.

Theon swallowed thickly and climbed back onto the bed with shaky limbs. He took a deep breath and bent to his task.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There probably will be a continuation of this story as well, but in a different installment (Iron and Lemon Cakes?)


End file.
